Select Player Two

Chapter 01

The first thing Sonika Vora did every morning was check if her game was broken.

She wasn’t talking about the fun kind of broken, where a bug accidentally made your character sprint backwards or launch into orbit when you pressed the jump button. No, she was talking about the kind of broken that meant the build wouldn’t even open and the whole team would spend the day quietly crying into their keyboards.

This morning, her screen stayed black for three long seconds before flickering to life. No crashes. No red error messages. Just the pixelated splash screen she’d spent two months obsessing over: a whimsical airship floating against a pastel sky.

Mango, the orange studio cat, leapt onto her desk, tail swishing dangerously close to her coffee mug. “Not now, Mango,” she muttered, shoving a stack of sketchbooks out of the way. The cat ignored her and sat squarely on her mousepad, as if to remind her who really ran Firebug Studios.

From her perch in their one-room, plant-overrun office, Sonika could see almost every inch of the place: three mismatched desks crammed together, whiteboards scrawled with to-do lists and half-erased doodles, a sagging couch that doubled as a nap station. The air smelled faintly of soldering iron, ramen, and the basil plant someone had brought in last summer and promptly forgotten to water.

Her mornings were always the same:

1. Check the new build.

2. Fix whatever fresh hell the code gods had unleashed overnight.

3. Answer player questions in the beta forums.

4. Put out whatever metaphorical fires had started amongst the team.

She’d already responded to two bug reports, argued with herself over whether the boss fight needed more environmental hazards, and half-finished a design doc for the next update before DeAngelo, their junior programmer, shuffled in.

“Morning, boss,” DeAngelo said, dropping his bag on the couch. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

“That’s because I haven’t.” Sonika pushed her glasses up her nose. “The boss AI kept running into walls. Not very menacing for the endgame.”

DeAngelo snorted. “Maybe it’s just socially awkward.”

Sonika smiled, but her stomach was already knotting. Today wasn’t just another day of code wrangling and coffee refills. Today was Investor Day.

And not just any investor. It’s Sebastian Akselsen. The new guy. The man whose suit in the last Zoom meeting had probably cost more than their hardware budget for the year. The man who’d suggested, without a hint of shame or awareness of what it actually takes, that maybe their art style could be “more sleek” and that more microtransactions would “add monetization opportunities.”

She didn’t trust him. Not just because he was corporate, but because corporate had a way of sanding down all the weird, wonderful edges of a game until nothing good remained. Only lifeless and marketable mush. And A Skybound – her baby, her obsession, her two-years-and-counting passion project – deserved better than that.

The break room at Firebug Studios was technically a rectangle with a mini-fridge, a microwave from the late ’90s, and an espresso machine held together with duct tape and prayers.

It smelled like someone had reheated tuna earlier.

Adelaide sat at the wobbly table, hunched over her laptop like it was holding the secrets to immortality. Her thick blonde hair was in a bun so messy it looked like it might have its own gravitational pull. But even with that she managed to look beautiful as always.

“Bad news or bad news?” Sonika asked, tugging open the fridge door and peering in at three cans of energy drink, a jar of pickles, and what might have once been lasagna. “Remind me to clean the fridge before we leave tonight.”

“Bad news,” Addy said without looking up. “We’ve got four months of runway left, if the investors stay in.”

Sonika grabbed the least dented energy drink. “See, that’s very bad news, Addy.”

“Convention’s in three months,” Addy continued, tapping furiously on her spreadsheet. “If Skybound doesn’t pull in preorder buzz, we’re toast. And if Sebastian Akselsen’s firm decides to cut and run before then –”

“They pull out,” Sonika finished. “And we don’t just lose funding. We lose the whole game.”

Addy finally looked up, eyes shadowed from too many late nights. “Exactly.”

The fridge hummed ominously, as if it, too, knew its days were numbered. “We’ve got that meeting this afternoon.”

“Wow, I’d totally forgotten… thanks, Addy!” I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the dreaded meeting that I have to attend. Sitting amongst the cool, collected, vicious, ruthless, and boring people in formals as they pick apart Skybound as if it’s not something a group of people have spent years of their time in.

“You should thank Sebastian Akselsen. Considering how the last meeting went, I’m surprised we’re being given this much grace.”

“Sonny, you told him that you’ll make sure to put the final boss in a suit like the one he was wearing, that that’ll be sleek enough.”

“That was a joke.”

The dev room was a chaos of screens, tangled cords, and half-empty mugs. Three giant fan units hummed at full blast to keep the overheated PCs from combusting. There wasn’t much in the name of decor here. A few pictures on the walls with generic yet hopeful quotes, a few posters to make the room look less boring. It’s the people who worked in here that made all the difference.

Ben, their lead programmer, sat at his dual monitors, dark circles under his eyes. “If the espresso machine dies, we’re filing for bankruptcy,” he said without turning around.

DeAngelo, perched on a beanbag in the corner, muttered, “Not funny.” DeAngelo didn’t enjoy all this talk of poor financial conditions. According to him, the universe doesn’t reward pessimism and negative-self-talk with good things.

Maura, our art director, rolled back from her desk, her hair a halo of frizz from constantly running her hands through it. “I got an email from a recruiter yesterday. Bigger studio, steady paycheck, catered lunches. I’m not saying I’m leaving, but… you know. Options!”

Sonika planted her hands on her hips. “Great. Love the team spirit. Next up, we’ll do a morale-building workshop where we all scream into the same pillow. A few people snorted, but no one denied they were thinking the same thing. “But honestly, guys. I love you for sticking around but I won’t blame anyone if you want to leave this obviously sinking ship.”

“Guys, c’mon! Let’s not taint the energy of the room with more of this sad stuff. The meeting’s about to start. We have worked hard and we will get through this. I don’t want you all to put all of these bad vibes while going into this,” DeAngelo said. He looked positively disappointed in all of us. Sometimes, he did a better job at keeping the spirits up at this place than me. And I’m supposed to be the boss.

“Sorry, Angie,” we all said in unison.

The Zoom call opened with a chime, and suddenly there he was. Along with several others who looked like they were already having a bad day. They all looked the same and I’m pretty sure they even sound the exact same.

Sebastian Akselsen was in his usual high-rise office with floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the city skyline like a motivational poster. His hair was perfect, his smile calculated, his white shirt crisp enough to slice bread. The man whose name was on half their funding paperwork and, judging by the pristine backdrop, probably also on several country club memberships.

“First off,” he said, voice smooth as espresso foam, “I’ve been keeping up with all the work that you all are putting into Skybound and I can really see the vision coming into life. So, I’m glad.”

Sonika’s shoulders eased a fraction, enough that she let herself imagine for a second that maybe, just maybe, he was going to say something nice without immediately following it with –

“But…”

There it was.

“I think there are opportunities to make it more accessible. A cleaner UI, simpler combat for accessibility.” His tone was gentle but surgical, like he was complimenting a puppy while explaining why it needed to be put down. “Oh, and microtransactions could help diversify revenue streams.”

Across the conference table, Ben muted himself so he could swear into the hood of his sweatshirt, shoulders shaking with suppressed rage.

Sonika forced her lips into something that vaguely resembled a smile, even as the muscles in her jaw twitched. “We designed the combat for depth. For players who want a real challenge.”

“Of course,” Sebastian said, leaning back in his chair, fingertips pressed together like a TV lawyer about to destroy the witness. His gaze was steady, unreadable, but there was a weight to it, a reminder that his version of “course” meant you’ll do it anyway. “But studies show most players prefer an easier experience. We just want to make sure it’s… broadly appealing.”

Broadly appealing?

Like white walls and grey furniture?

Like corporate logos that all looked the same?

Like a food with no masala?

She bit her tongue so hard she tasted copper, the metallic tang filling her mouth as she swallowed everything she wanted to say. Because she couldn’t afford to be the lead designer who told the investor to go to hell. Not today.

The meeting had ended with the polite little click of a Zoom call ending, and Sonika was left staring at her own reflection on the dark screen.

Her cheeks were flushed, not the cute, rom-com kind of flushed, but the you’ve-just-spent-forty-minutes-biting-your-tongue kind. She could still see Sebastian’s too-perfect smile burned into her brain, paired with his “broadly appealing” death sentence for the combat system.

Ben had unmuted himself from across the conference table. “Well, that was fun,” he’d said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Sonika had muttered something unprintable under her breath.

The truth was, she’d gone into the call braced for feedback. But she hadn’t expected that kind of feedback. The kind that made her feel like years of painstaking design had been boiled down to a PowerPoint bullet point about “streamlining for casual players.”

Aston, the co-founder of the studio, had ended the meeting with his usual diplomacy, promising they’d “review the suggestions and circle back.” Translation: Please don’t kill the golden goose before payday.

By the time she got home, her head was pounding from the mix of fluorescent lights, screen glare, and swallowing every sharp retort she’d wanted to throw at Sebastian.

She dropped her bag on the floor, kicked off her sneakers, and dug into the fridge for last night’s fried rice. She was halfway through reheating it in the world’s most unreliable microwave when her laptop pinged. Sonika almost threw the spoon in her hand at the wall.

“What now!?” She screamed to her room at no one in particular.

The email from Aston was short. Painfully short.

“Please don’t antagonize Sebastian.

He’s our biggest investor. If he walks, the game dies.

I’m trusting you to keep things… steady until after the convention.”

No emojis. No soft edges. Just cold reality in three lines. She stared at it for a long moment, the smell of soy sauce and overcooked egg filling her apartment. She closed the laptop with a sigh big enough to ruffle her unruly bangs. The microwave beeped, and she realized the rice was lukewarm — not unlike her enthusiasm for the days ahead. Sonika didn’t feel like the lead designer at all. She didn’t feel like a lead anything. Of course, she could churn out a version of Skybound that’s more accessible and marketable. But then what? People in that office beyond the Zoom call weren’t thinking of long-term consequences of making an “accessible” game. Sure, she could do that. They’ll please the investors and put that version of Skybound for the public to consume. But about after that? Skybound will become yet another mediocre fantasy RPG that the players would call “flat” and “boring” and “lacking any depth or edge.” Sonika will become one of the many game makers who will fade into oblivion. Maybe she should take what she is getting and cut her losses. Whatever fortune Skybound will help her make, she should pay off her debts and look for a mediocre job in a medicare gaming company.

Her apartment desk was a crime scene of ramen cups, crumpled Post-it notes, beer, and energy drink cans. It was midnight, she’d been awake for nineteen hours, and her hair was in a lopsided bun that defied the laws of physics. She hadn’t been home since last night and her place needed some serious cleaning. Mess and disorganization wasn’t what she liked to live in. Her college self was nit-picky about keeping everything clean and organized. But ever since, she’d actually started working on Skybound, 99% of her time went into that and the rest of her life had taken a backseat. No parties, no boys, no socializing, no family time, no nothing. She hadn’t visited her family in India for more than three years now. Not that there was anything left of it. She shook those thoughts out of her head. Right now was not the time.

She started the beta test livestream, the familiar ping of her Discord server filling her headphones. Once in every 3 days, Sonika took some time out to actually play the beta version of Skybound on her Discord server with some of the loyal followers of Skybound. So far the game has had pretty good feedback. There were about 7,000 people who watched her test Skybound and gave her really helpful feedback on possible improvements and bugs.

“Hey, skyfarers,” she said, smiling for the camera. “Tonight we’re running through the latest build of Skybound.”

A few minutes passed as more and more viewers joined in. This was the first time she was testing the game after incorporating the previous feedback from Sebastian. The chat scrolled fast — regulars asking about features, sharing fan art, joking about in-game glitches.

Then came the questions.

“Where’s the glider upgrade?”

“Why does the UI look like every other RPG now?”

“Did you guys sell out?”

She explained at first, carefully. “We’re just… testing some new directions.”

But the questions and taunts kept coming, and the exhaustion pressed down like a weighted blanket.

“Yeah, the direction being money!”

That’s it! That was her trigger. Sonika couldn’t help herself. So, she leaned toward the camera. “Look, our new investor wants everything to look more… polished. Which is fine, if you like games with the personality of an empty elevator. I’m not the one who has any power whatsoever cause of course. Go call Sebastian Akselsen a sell out. I’m just the lead designer! And he is the guy with the money. I don’t get to do what I want or what you guys want because a guy in a boring 3-piece suit said so. He wants to make it marketable and sleek. He probably wants it to match his bedroom — lifeless, corporate, zero creativity.”

The chat exploded. Strings of crying-laughing emojis, “OMG,” and “CLIP IT!” filling the right side of her screen.

She laughed too, thinking nothing of it. It wouldn’t be funny in the morning.

Somewhere, in his high-rise with the perfect lighting, Sebastian Akselsen would wake up to stare at his phone, recalculating every cent he’d put into Firebug Studios.